Chapter 6 - Emerald

"You don't understand," my mother hisses. "Emmitt's company is offering to launch my new luxury cosmetics line, but he specifically requested Emerald's involvement in the auction as a condition of the deal."

I shrink in my chair, feeling about two inches tall. Of course this is about business. With my mother, everything is about business. Even her own daughter is just another investment in her portfolio, another asset to be leveraged at exactly the right moment.

Cohen's jaw tightens, and I swear I can hear his teeth grinding. His fingers curl around his coffee cup like he wishes it was someone's throat. "So you're willing to sell your daughter to that piece of shit for a few dollars?"

"Don't be dramatic," my mother scoffs. "It's just business. So Emmitt wants to spend a few hours in Emerald's company. Is that so wrong? I've raised her to be docile, attentive, and innocent for this exact purpose."

Her words slam into me like a physical blow. This exact purpose . Like I'm a doll she's been crafting, keeping pristine until someone with enough money wants to play with me.

"I'm not going to let you ruin this for me, Cohen," she continues, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. "This deal will catapult Delacroix Collective to a whole new level. If you interfere, you will regret it."

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. I peek up at Cohen through my lashes, and oh . Something dark and dangerous flashes across his face before he masks it with cold. Not just regular cold—we're talking arctic levels of frost that would make my mother's ice queen persona look warm and fuzzy. I've never seen his face look like that, but I bet this is the expression he wears right before he destroys someone in court.

"Fine," he says, breaking the silence. "I'll drive her to his office myself. I'll stay for the meeting and oversee the arrangements. After all, we wouldn't want anything... inappropriate to happen."

The way he says "inappropriate" sends a shiver skittering over my skin. There's a promise in his voice, a threat that's not directed at me but that I feel in my bones anyway. For a second, I picture him standing between me and Emmitt's hungry stares, and despite everything wrong with wanting my stepfather's protection, my body relaxes just a fraction.

"That won't be necessary," my mother tries again, but Cohen's already shaking his head.

"It's either that, or she doesn't go at all. Your choice, Madeline."

Something passes between them, some silent battle of wills that I can't quite understand. But I know, somehow, that Cohen's winning. The oxygen seems to vanish from the room, and I'm caught in the crossfire of whatever war they're waging.

My mother's phone buzzes, saving us all from the suffocating tension. She glances at it and stands abruptly, but I don't miss the way her fingers tremble slightly as she grabs her tablet. "I have a meeting at the office." She gives me a look that promises this isn't over, her eyes glacial. "Don't be late for the photoshoot this afternoon, and for the love of God, change your outfit before you meet with Emmitt."

Before she reaches the doorway, she pauses and turns back, already scrolling through her tablet. Like the previous conversation never happened, like she hasn't just offered me up as a sacrifice to her ambition, she starts rattling off the day's agenda in that clipped tone she uses when she's organizing her world exactly how she wants it. She doesn't even look at me as she continues, too focused on her screen. "The photographers will be here in an hour. We need to get your hair and makeup done, and then we'll start with individual shots before the family portraits." She glances up at my stepfather. "Darling, you'll need to be ready by noon."

"Of course," he says smoothly, but his eyes never leave me. The weight of his gaze makes my skin prickle with awareness, and I have to fight the urge to squirm. It's like he can see straight through me, past all my mother's careful programming to something real and raw that I didn't even know existed.

I slide lower, trying to make myself as small as possible. One of the kitchen staff appears, setting a plate of fresh fruit and yogurt in front of me—my usual breakfast. The only thing my mother allows me to have.

Normal people probably get to eat pancakes. Or waffles. Or literally anything with actual flavor.

Cohen pushes back from the table, buttoning his suit jacket with one fluid motion that draws my eyes to his hands. Strong hands that I swear I felt on my skin in my dreams last night... I wrench my gaze to my yogurt bowl, my thoughts scattering like startled birds.

"I have a meeting at The Lodge this morning," he announces. "I'll be back for the photoshoot."

My stomach drops at the thought of him leaving. I try not to let it show, but my hands curl around the edge of my bowl, gripping it just a little too tightly while I stare at the strawberries slowly sinking into the yogurt so I don't have to watch him go. It's pathetic how much I want him to stay, how safe I feel when he's here, even though he's probably the most dangerous person in this house.

He stops behind my chair, and I don't have to look to know he's there. It's like my body has developed some kind of Cohen-specific radar, and right now it's going haywire. His hand lands on my shoulder, warm and heavy, and I have to bite back a gasp at the contact. That deep ache between my legs pulses in response to his touch, like my body knows something my mind doesn't.

Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.

"Be careful today, little one," he murmurs, so quietly I barely hear him.

And there goes my ability to think straight. Again . Because that's exactly what I need right now—more evidence that I'm completely losing it over my stepfather.

I wonder if there's a support group for this sort of thing. "Hi, I'm Emerald, and I get tingly feelings when my mother's husband calls me pet names."

I bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.

But then he's gone, leaving me with my skin buzzing where he touched me, wondering if I really am losing my mind.

My mother's calculating stare drills holes into my skull, but I'm an expert at pretending it doesn't bother me.

"Really, Emerald," she sighs, setting her tablet down. I thought she was leaving but it looks like she’s decided to stay. Great. She’s going to pick right back up where she left off. Of course she doesn’t care what Cohen has to say. Why would she? I don’t understand their marriage at all. They don’t seem to love each other. So why marry someone you don’t love?

The question gnaws at me. I watch them together sometimes, looking for any sign of affection, but all I see is ice between them. It makes no sense.

When I get married, it’ll be to my soulmate. Someone who’ll make every moment feel like magic, who’ll hold my hand like it’s the most precious thing in the world. The kind of love that makes everything else fade away, as if we're living in our own fairytale.

But even as I think it, Cohen's face flashes through my mind, and my stomach does that weird flip-flop thing again.

My mother's next words snap me back to reality. "You need to stop being so dramatic about everything. The photoshoot needs to be perfect, and I won't have you sulking through it."

I stare down at my untouched breakfast, my appetite vanishing. "Yes, Mother."

What else can I say? I'm trapped here, in this pristine prison, with no way out. No friends, no real education, no job skills—nothing that would let me escape. My trust fund is completely under her control until I'm twenty-five, and even then, there are probably a million strings attached that I don't know about.

I don’t even know how to drive.

She's made sure I'm completely dependent on her for everything. The perfect little doll in her perfect little dollhouse, ready to be sold to the highest bidder. Marketed to the highest bidder, I should say. That sounds more like my mother's style.

"Good girl," she says, standing up. "Now finish your breakfast and get upstairs. The beauty team is waiting."

As she marches away in her designer heels, I push my bowl away and close my eyes, trying to hold back tears. Everything feels like too much today. My skin doesn't fit right, my thoughts keep scattering everywhere, and that deep ache between my legs hasn't gone away. I don't know how much longer I can do this.

I take a shaky breath and force myself to stand, my chair scraping against the marble floor in a way that makes me wince. My mother's probably timing how long it takes me to get upstairs. We wouldn't want to keep the beauty team waiting, would we? Heaven forbid anyone have to wait an extra thirty seconds to make me camera ready .

With restraint built up from years of practice, I hold back an eyeroll. My feet drag with each step up the staircase making me more aware of how strange my body feels today. Sometimes I wonder if my mother sees me as a daughter or just another product in her empire—a representation of her brand that she can show off. Today, I'm betting on product.

The beauty team descends on me like a flock of well-dressed vultures, armed with curling irons and makeup brushes. I sink into the chair at my vanity, letting them work their magic while my mind drifts. Every time I close my eyes, I see Cohen's face and replay the feel of his hand on my shoulder.

Under his fingers, it felt like fireworks going off under my skin. The more he touches me, I’m finding, the more I want. Like I’m starving he’s started tossing me crumbs. And I'm pathetic enough to be grateful for even that much.

"You look like you’re a million miles away today, Miss Delacroix," Maria, my usual makeup artist, says as she dusts something shimmery across my cheekbones. "Everything okay?"

I force a smile. "Just thinking about my to-do list."

She hums sympathetically, but there’s a curiosity in her gaze she doesn’t even try to hide. Everyone who works for my mother is a spy, reporting back everything I say or do. I learned that lesson early.

They may seem friendly, but these are no friends to me.

"Your mother mentioned you’ll be working with Mr. Caldwell on the charity auction," she says, switching brushes.

My stomach churns at the mention of Emmitt. "Yeah," I mutter, then immediately regret showing any negativity when I catch the glint in Maria's eyes. She just smiles and keeps working, no doubt filing away my reaction to report back to my mother.

An hour later, I'm deemed camera-ready. My dark hair falls in perfect waves, my makeup is flawless but natural-looking, and I'm wearing a different cream-colored sweater dress, this one more "festive" according to the stylist.

I look exactly like what I am: an ornament in my mother's holiday display.

"There you are!" My mother appears in my doorway, looking like she just stepped off a magazine cover in a red designer dress that's somehow both elegant and shows off the body she starves herself for. "The photographers are setting up outside. We need to—" She pauses, her eyes narrowing as she studies me. "Something's off."

My heart stumbles. Can she tell? Can she see the guilt written all over my face? The thoughts I've been having about her husband?

Please don't be a mind reader. Please don't be a mind reader. Please don't —

But she just clicks her tongue and moves closer, reaching for my necklace. "This shade of gold isn't right with the cream. Kendra!"

Oh thank god. I hold my breath to keep from blowing it out in relief. Just another fashion ‘crisis’. I can handle a fashion crisis. That's, like, a normal Tuesday in his house.

Her assistant materializes like she was summoned by dark magic. "Yes, Mrs. Delacroix?"

"Get the pearl set from my jewelry cabinet. The one with the drop earrings."

"Right away."

I stand still as my mother adjusts my hair, her touches clinical and impersonal. Like she's arranging flowers in a vase. She's never been the kind of mother who hugs or shows affection. Everything about her is calculated, even her love—which I’m not convinced she even feels toward me.

Maybe she’s not capable of feeling it at all.

"There," she says finally, stepping back. "Now you look perfect."

Perfect . I clench my teeth together to keep from cringing. I hate perfect.

"Has anyone seen my husband?" she asks, checking her phone. "He should be back by now."

As if on cue, the front door opens downstairs, followed by familiar footsteps. My pulse takes off, and I hate myself for it. Hate that I recognize his walk, that my body responds to him before I even see him. Like my personal Cohen-radar just kicked into high alert.

"I'm here," his deep voice carries up the stairs, smooth as melted chocolate. He stops in my doorway, leaning against the door frame, and his eyes immediately find mine.

Heat floods through me like a fever, burning under every inch of my skin, and for a second, I forget how to exist. I forget where I am. His gaze locks onto mine like he's trying to tell me secrets no one else can hear. Like I'm falling and flying at the same time, and somehow I know he won't let me crash. My heart pounds against my ribs, and I swear the room tilts sideways. I want to reach out, to close the space between us, to... to what? I don't even know what I want, but it scares me how badly I want something .

"Well, hurry up and change," my mother's voice slices through the moment, and reality comes crashing back. I blink, remembering where I am. Who else is in this room. "We're already running behind."

I wrench my gaze away, worry clawing up my throat. Did anyone notice? Did my mother see how I was staring at her husband like he was oxygen and I was drowning? And what did he see in my face? I risk a quick glance, my heart in my throat, but Cohen's already looking at my mother, his expression unreadable. I drop my eyes to the floor, praying no one caught what must've been written all over my face.

I barely have time to collect myself before my mother spins on her heel, leading everyone downstairs. I follow because I have to, my legs unsteady and my mind a mess. I'm doing what's expected of me, being the obedient daughter, ready for her next command. But it feels harder today, every step heavier, weighed down by feelings I don't understand and thoughts I wish I could ignore.

I hate how I keep thinking about him, hate the way I got caught staring. Hate how much I want him to look at me again, to touch me again, to say my name in that soft, dark way that makes my skin come alive.

And most of all, I hate that no matter how much I try, I don't think I can stop.